Rescue Mission and Jailbreak
by Enochian Whisperer
Summary: An alternate Season 9 finale which bleeds into an alternate Season 10 premiere.
1. The Beast Inside

**Hi guys. I actually wrote this fic before the season 9 finale in May as a sort of prediction for what would happen, and as you will see I was quite off about a lot of things. xD Regardless, I really hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it**.

**TWs For This Chapter: Gore. It's not really the most graphic gore out there (and if you've been watching Supernatural you know it can get gory), but here's the warning anyway~ **

* * *

Gadreel was dead.

Deader than a doornail.

In fact, his innards were mince meat now.

Dean Winchester's hand was plunged into his stomach.

All Sam could think was, '_Oh god._'

The look his brother's eyes were captivated by was absolutely, undeniably psychotic. Sam watched for a moment in silence as Dean satiated himself by tearing Gadreel's corpse apart. He had seen how he tore into Abaddon shortly after putting her down, but _this time_— Sam himself had been possessed and manipulated by Gadreel and he didn't harbor _nearly_ as much rage toward the angel as Dean's glare alone did. Sam had seen more than his share of bloodshed in his lifetime, and if there was anything that he could say, it was that his brother didn't look good in red.

Castiel watched this from where he was down on the ground. His breathing shouldered a subtle wheeze. He grit his jaw as he took in the bloody scene before him. He himself hadn't been all that fond of Gadreel (How could he be? It was his fault that Lucifer corrupted Eve.), but right now, he truly felt sick to his stomach. Gadreel had been lost. He had allowed himself to be deceived by Metatron, and he had hurt his friends in the process, but he had finally come around and allied himself with them. There had been hope for Gadreel yet. But the angel being ripped up just feet away– Castiel felt an uneasy kinship to his brother in that moment. That angel could have very well been him.

"Dean, stop," Sam said. Dean didn't stop. He was sawing his way up Gadreel's torso with the First Blade, with a vengeance that wouldn't simply be talked down. "Dean!" Sam called louder, "He's dead! You can stop!"

Dean was still going. Up and up through wreaths of bone. Castiel recalled his oath to Crowley, a sure promise to carve out his heart upon his betrayal.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted angrily, "STOP! NOW!"

Dean stopped.

The older brother gazed down at the mess beneath him blankly. The Blade was lodged in Gadreel's chest cavity, with his red-dyed fingers curled around the blackened hilt. He blinked through the splotching of blood on his skin. There was a thrum of energy pinwheeling at the juncture of his elbow. It made his heart jump, and a small noise escaped through barely parted lips. A small voice whispered to him from the back of his mind.

_Kill_.

Dean's jaw tightened and his focused hollowed itself out. His arm thrust forward.

"DEAN!" Sam's voice echoed through the whispers that held Dean's focus. His arm yanked back.

_Kill._

Sam was stepping forward, still calling out to him. The whispers tumbled and cascaded over one another like a rapid river of conscious thought. He couldn't hear Sam's voice anymore.

_Kill_.

Sam's foot tapped beside him. Silence fell, slaughtering the turbulence of noise all at once. Dean was visibly shaking. Energy crawled through his arm, seeping down to the tips of fingers, and up to his shoulder. His veins glowed the colors of a dying demon, climbing up and up his neck. The Mark was still calling. Dean answered.

His foot scraped.

In a flash, Sam's brother sprang at him with the Blade sweeping a broad, clean arc.


	2. Love Is Not Blind

Sam barely dodged Dean's broad swing. Had he not reacted sooner, his chest would have been sliced like Gadreel's back at the bunker. A struggle ensued. Sam staggered back, and Dean drove the knife down on Sam's face, but Sam had the dexterity to catch the blade inches from the bridge of his nose. An iron grip locked around Dean's wrist, Sam's strength rebelled against his brother's. His face scrunched up as every fiber in his being tautened to get the Blade the _hell out of his face—_

Castiel seized Dean's dominant arm. Good old Castiel. The angel pried back Dean's arm with all the might he had left, and the smell of burning fabric struck Sam's nose as he gasped at the sudden relief that washed over him now that the Blade was being withdrawn. Sam watched Castiel haul Dean back, and he followed suit to wrench the Blade from Dean's grasp. Sam realized that Dean's jacket sleeve had been scorched through: Castiel was trying to burn the Mark from Dean's skin.

"CAS!"

Dean's elbow jabbed up sharply, cracking Castiel's jaw. The angel loosed, collapsing in a heap on the ground. Sam was on his brother faster than lightning. He grabbed his brother's hand, fighting to disarm him. Castiel, on the ground, was too disoriented to keep up. Sam yelled Castiel's name again, because he could really use his help right about now-

Dean shoved Sam off, and Sam backed up a good ten feet from Dean. Out of breath, Sam was hopped up on adrenaline. Quickly, he assessed the situation. Castiel was still on the ground, probably unconscious— fantastic. He was a defenseless target now. To make matters worse, Dean stood between him and Cas. Should Dean wisen up and move to shank the angel first—

Sam didn't even want to think about it. He kept his eyes locked on his brother.

"Hey, hey- HEY!" he ushered, to distract him from any new possible angel-slaying notion that could crop up. It seemed to work; Dean was shooting him a fifty-yard, tunnel-visioned stare. Sam swallowed. "... Dean, put the Blade down, huh?" he tried to reason, "You— You iced Gadreel," he gestured to the mutilated angel to their left. Thank god Gadreel was to their left. "He _totally_ got what was coming for him, right?" Sam was disgusted by saying it how he did, but he had to keep this deranged man entertained somehow. "I mean, he possessed me- He _made me kill Kevin_-"

A flash had Sam stop for a moment. A light radiated beneath Dean's skin, and for a brief second, Sam saw a strange distortion sweep over the hunter's face. It looked twisted. Demonic.

"...Hey, Dean," Sam said more gently, despite the terror that chilled his blood, "Remember when—when we went fishing up at that lake with Bobby?" Sam had to treaded lightly here. He didn't want to spike Dean's anger. He had to carefully navigate these waters. He almost shot for a memory concerning their father, but thankfully he steered away from it. "Bobby had the weekend off and he took us up to the lake— what was it called?" He expected Dean to help him fish for the name, but he didn't answer. "... You and me had that contest to see who could hook the most fish, remember? I almost won, but then that rainstorm blew over, and you got the jump on me. Bobby fell overboard!" he said, excitement getting the better of him for a moment.

Sam went quiet. Dean still wasn't responding.

"... Dean? You with me-?"

_Kill_, the voice urged.

Something snapped, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin.

_KILL!_

Dean sprinted right at Sam. The younger brother leaped out of harm's way, but not without the Blade slicing through his sleeve. Recoiling, Sam hissed in pain. He would have put pressure on the bleed, but time didn't permit such frivolity. Once again, Dean had him pinned and grasping at straws for dear life. Sam managed to halt a brute undercut, snapping his hand to shunt the Blade's upward swing. His hand shot back down and snatched Dean's wrist.

"Dean-!" Sam voice strained, "Stop! This isn't you-!" The Blade was jabbing into Sam's stomach, but not enough to pierce his flesh. Sam had lost all hope in Castiel coming to his rescue again. He was down for the count. Sam's hand trembled heavily as he slowly, slowly managed to twist the Blade away from his stomach. If he could just part the Blade from Dean-

"_God_-" he half-groaned, half-prayed, pinching his eyes shut. Dean's strength was incredible. "_Dean_-"

Dean was so close. He could almost taste victory. It was within arm's reach. Dean had lost all conception of just who he was up against. It no longer mattered to him. They were all the same to him. Things to stab. Things to bleed. Things to _kill_.

"_I'm gonna make you scream_," Dean's voice uttered darkly through huffed lips in a way that wasn't Dean's voice at all. "_I'm going to seat you in Hell myself. I am going to make you wish you had never been born_-"

Sam kicked up a fast knee, but that only gave Dean wiggle room to force the Blade back against Sam.

"DEAN-" the younger brother choked in frightened anticipation. His voice twitched, and he continued in a higher, but quieter pitch, "Don't do this, Dean- _Don't go back on your promise-_"

Sam was ready to die. It would be a lie to say he never imagined he would die at the hands of the one person who was supposed to protect him. But right now? It was a couple years late. Sam drilled his eyes right into Dean's. If Dean was going to kill him, so be it. But he would make sure that Dean would remember. A strange pit of anger surged in Sam, and hot tears threatened to sting his eyes. He inhaled sharply what he believed would be his last breath. It reeked of blood and burned flesh.

A flash sparked, jilting Sam's hellbent gaze. It came from Dean's eyes. It was so quick that Sam thought he imagined it. But his brother was suddenly back. He could see it. He was so overjoyed that he almost didn't notice the slip of his body against his brother's.

Sam slung an arm over Dean's shoulder and wept with a smile. He held onto his big brother and thought he would never let him go.

Dean's breath stifled with a warm froth on his shoulder.

Sam stopped.

He pulled away.

"_Dean-?_"

Bloody saliva bubbled on Dean's lips.

Sam's eyes dropped faster than lead.

His heart stopped.

"—No-" he chirped, "Oh, _no_-"

The Blade withdrew with a sickening squelch. It clattered on the floor, dressed in fresh Winchester blood.

"No,_ no-no-no_-" Sam repeated, as if a chorus of denial would bring back what was already dead. "_Oh my god, no_-"

Sam's scream didn't go unheard by the gods in heaven,  
on earth,  
or down below.


	3. Two-For-One Deal

Dean could hear Sam's hollering through the Veil. He could see Sam cradling his body, sinking to the ground and laying him out on the ground. Sam ripped open his jacket, his shirt, to reveal the wound. Sam couldn't see it, but the Blade had severed his abdominal aorta. The blue tint of atmosphere within the Veil greatly muted the dramatic coloring of the blood spilling from his stomach, as well as everything else around them. Sam was frantically checking the wound, his pulse, applying pressure to the wound— Dean's lip curled up sadly. Oh, Sammy, no... _You're not gonna save me this time, little brother. _Sam was sobbing, hunched over his brother's dead body. It was a torturous Hell all by itself to watch his brother suffer like this. But he did what had to be done. He convinced himself solely of that.

But what made it worse was when Sam started to reason with the corpse.

"—C'mon Dean, joke's over," Sam's own lips twisted up painfully, "You're not dead- you're not gonna stay dead- You always come back-"

Dean had to quirk his eyebrows at that. Well, it was true. He always did come back. But he didn't see how he was gonna cheat Death this time.

"I dunno, Sam, I look pretty dead to me," Dean said to the open air. The dead hunter looked around the room. His eyes fell on Gadreel. He stared, face subtly morphing from shock to disgust. Dean looked down at his hands. They were spotless. Then he remembered he was dead and looked back at his body's instead. _I did that,_ he concluded. Questions prodded his mind, but they were quickly stowed aside when his eyes found Castiel, still slumped on the floor.

"Cas-?" he asked in a half-mutter that was unnecessary; Sam couldn't hear him to begin with. He took a few steps closer, but he was afraid to get too close. _Oh no._ Cas couldn't be dead, could he?

Sam seemed to remember that Castiel existed too. Dean wasn't offended that his brother had abandoned him so soon; there were more pressing matters at hand. It wasn't hard to let Sam slide on this.

"Cas?!" Sam was nearly shouting as he dropped to his knees beside the angel. Dean watched his brother shake the guy by the shoulders. Dean, not for the first time, wondered what happened to angels when they died. "No-no-no, don't you die on me too, damn it—CAS!"

Castiel's face scrunched, a repulsed response to Sam's volume. The boys were both relieved to see it though. It meant that their friend was still breathing. Sam was painting Castiel with Dean's blood, but nobody cared. The angel's eyes cracked open slightly, and he let out a scratched grunt.

"Stay with me, man-" Sam encouraged, fists full of beige coat. He tried to help him sit up.

"_My Grace_-" the angel started in a lazed slur, fingers hooking on Sam's shirt absently.

"Is burning out," Sam finished, "I know–" The younger Winchester huffed, shaking his head. "Damn it, Cas-"

"_Dean_-"

"He's alright," Sam said, sparing a brief glance over his shoulder, "...He's not gonna hurt us."

Castiel swallowed, blue eyes never leaving Sam, and his fingers fell. His voice dropped to a depth that had once been forgotten.

"_I know_."

Sam couldn't answer him for a moment. But when a coughing fit seized the angel, Dean reached forward on impulse, and Sam's grip on his friend tightened.

"Hey-hey-hey," he said nervously, "Easy there-" Castiel wheezed through the paroxysm of pain shooting through his jaw. He wasn't sure, but it felt broken. His teeth weren't lining up how they used to.

"_I can't_-" he forced out.

"Yes you can," Sam said a little too firmly in his haste, "You're not going to-"

Castiel's hand groped blindly, and yanked Sam's collar hard, choking the sentence.

"..._'s the end of the line for me_," he told Sam quietly, because every movement of his jaw hurt. "_I—'m at the end of my rope_." For the first time, Castiel's eyes strayed from Sam's, and he stared up, through the ceiling, as if his gaze was homebound. He remembered a quote of his own making. Freedom was a death sentence.

"..._ 'm gonna hang_," he said.

Neither Sam nor Dean had any idea what he was talking about. At best, they could assume he was quoting a film or book. But, nay, they were words of his own craft, splintered from the whole.

Sam's heart leaped into his throat as Castiel's eyes slid closed.

"Hey! No!" he scolded, shaking Castiel back awake, "Damn it, NO! Cas, come on! When have you ever been the guy who gives up?!" Castiel listened blankly as Sam recalled all the times that Castiel broke records with insurmountable failures, but no matter what, he never gave up. Dean found himself smiling grimly at some of the choice memories that Sam chose to hammer their friend with.

Castiel laughed.

It was a brief, broken, labored, dying laugh.

A better description of it would be unexpected puffs of air, sugarcoated with sound squeezing through a smile that hurt to stretch. Sam didn't know how to respond to this. Castiel's smile faded, and he weakly held up an open hand, saying, "_It's been an honor, Sam Winchester._"

"What?" barked Dean without thinking, "Dude, he just friggin' _pep-talked you! _Sam wrote a whole damn _book _for you!Cas, you can't leave him- not you too– You need to _watch_ my brother's sorry ass 'til I get back, buddy-" Dean was shaking his head in desperation. He turned away He knew that Castiel couldn't help his current condition, but damn it, he had to _try. _

"..._So I'm a babysitter again-?_"

Dean stopped.

"What?" Sam asked at the absurd, disjointed question, squeezing Castiel's hand tight.

Dean turned about-face.

He looked down at the angel with a soldier's demeanor.

"... Somebody's gotta do it," the older brother said, plain and simple.

Sam followed Castiel's suddenly empty, outward gaze.

"—Are you talking to him?" the younger brother asked quickly, "A-Are you _seeing him?_"

"What happens to angels when they die?" Dean asked. "Huh? What happens to them? Do you guys get your asses dropped in Purgatory, or is there some kinda angelic suite-"

Castiel's eye turned away from him.

"Castiel, you can _not_ die," Dean said, finally closing the gap and stooping beside him and Sam, "You listen to me, you son of a bitch. You _cannot_ die, or so help me-"

"Dean?"

His attention was diverted immediately.

Dean stared point blank at his brother. His brother wasn't staring back at him.

"Dean, are you there-?" Sam's eyes were sliding carefully around open space.

"... I'm right here, Sammy," he answered.

Sam seemed to give up on trying to reach Dean. He shook Castiel again.

"Cas-"

"_Let me die, Sam-_"

"_NO!_" the brothers angrily exclaimed in unison. Dean was up on his feet again. He paced in small circles, racking his scalp with his fingers. There had to be a way to save their friend. There had to be a way. A slipping sob from Sam made Dean stop pacing. Sam curled over Castiel, hugging him close. For a moment, Dean was afraid. But then he saw that, with effort, the angel slid a hand up Sam's shoulder. A poor, shot attempt of a hug. Dean continued pacing, but something else was reaching him.

The lost souls were screaming. He could hear them now. Echoing tumultuous cries for salvation. He imagined Kevin's among them.

"What can I do?" Sam asked Castiel. He didn't say anything, and Sam roused him, "Come on, man, there's gotta be something I can do!"

The screaming was worsening. It was like striking a million tuning forks at the same time and hearing the reverberations hum endlessly. Dean twisted and turned his body, covering his ears. God, this was two steps from Hell. No wonder Tessa was driven mad. This was torture to listen to. These voices were unearthing memories that the hunter did _not _want to revisit. The voices were building and building and _building_—

"**_SHUT UP!_**" Dean screamed.

The ground jolted beneath his feet and light bulbs overhead exploded on cue, showering the room with sparks. Dean caught a glimpse of Sam shielding Castiel from the raining white scintilla before the sparks vanished. Only one hanging lamp remained untouched by Dean Winchester's rage.

All was quiet.

Dean could only hear Sam's ragged breathing.

"..._Dean-?_"

Dean didn't answer. He blinked, and looked down at his hands.

An idea came to him just like that.

"_My god. I'm an idiot_," he breathed in realization.

What was a soul without a body?

_Energy._

Dean stepped towards Sam and Castiel, hands outstretched, ready to give.

But a voice crawled out of the air like a leg-less serpent.

"_Not so fast._"


	4. Time-Out Box

Dean turned around.  
The scene had changed completely.

The room he was now standing in resembled the Greenroom which Zachariah used to land his ass in every time he was due for a "talk". But this room felt much more... alive. Dean didn't waste much time observing the room though. Metatron's punk ass was standing right there. His fingers were laced together loosely and he was leaning up against a fancy armchair. Upon seeing his face, Dean wheeled back around. He was half-expecting to find himself back in that concrete room with his brother and Castiel, but this was no mere illusory trick.

"—No," he said, feeling the cream-colored wall now right in front of him. The hunter spun back to Metatron. "NO!"

"Yes," Metatron answered loftily.

"Send me back! RIGHT NOW!"

"Or _what?_" the angel challenged.

"OR HE'LL DIE!" Dean nearly lunged forward, but he stopped himself, "Cas will DIE!"

"As he is meant to," Metatron dismissed with quirked brows and a flyaway hand gesture.

"Oh, you son of a _bitch_-"

"What?" Metatron questioned, baffled by Dean's passion. "He _is_ the villain in this story. Everyone played their parts magnificently! Especially _you!_"

"So this is your end game?" Dean glowered, "Lifting my ass to the top floor, killing Cas, and–" He couldn't even bear to bring up Sam.

"I prefer to think of that as me _raising you from perdition_."

Dean almost threw himself at Metatron.

"...Well I got news for you, pal. The _only villain in this story is the one I'm looking at right now_. And he is one _ugly mother_-"

"Not your best spiteful comeback, Dean," the short angel dismissed, looking vainly at his fingernails.

"Send me the _hell back. Right now_."

Metatron paused, allowing his eyes to sweep over the room pensively.

"... Maybe I should," he mused, before acknowledging Dean with a nod, "I mean, that _could_ have been something interesting to see play out." He stepped away from the armchair, and made a grandiose sweep of his arms, "The great _Dean Winchester_ sacrificing himself in a last-ditch effort to save his best friend. But _tch-tch-tch_," he clicked, shaking his head, "That would be pretty risky, wouldn't it?"

"You only plucked me from the Veil because you knew it would work," Dean assumed.

"Perhaps," Metatron shrugged.

"If it was _risky_, it would only_ be risky_ because... well, you can't leave any loose ends, can you?" the hunter forced a smug, sarcastic smile.

"Now you're getting it," Metatron brightened, amused by his train of thought, "You're thinking like a _writer_ now."

"Oh, well congratulations to me. Where's the party?"

"I'm never going to get tired of your snark, Dean," Metatron was smiling humorously as he wagged a finger at the human, chuckling, "and that's the God-honest truth."

"Your dad must be so proud of you."

"Well, I think our time here is up," said the angel, as he glanced at a wrist watch that wasn't there, "Running the universe is pretty time-consuming-"

"Wait," Dean interrupted, "no, you gotta send me back."

"Sorry, Dean," Metatron shrugged sympathetically, "No can do."

"SEND ME BACK!"

"You don't have much of body to return to," he pointed out, "What, you'd rather suffer in the_ Veil_ for the rest of your–_afterlife?_"

"YES!" he blurted out. Metatron chewed on this. His jaw slacked, and slide side to side as his eyes strayed off again. His teeth clicked and his eyes returned to Dean.

"No."

"You _DICK-_"

A holy light shone, and swallowed up Dean faster than he could spit out the rest of his sentence.

"_Au revoir_, Dean," Metatron waved him away, "Enjoy eternal paradise."


	5. A Friend In Need

Castiel was coughing again. It was a suffocated cough. In the dimness of the room, Sam was still holding onto him. Looking around briefly, he saw that the concrete floor had been cracked. It looked like Mjolnir (Thor's mallet) made impact, leaving behind an intricate ring of webbing fissures in the floor. As far as Sam was concerned, it was the only visible trace he had of his brother standing with them. He had called out to Dean, but hadn't received another response since.

"Cas?"

"_Mm_."

Sam sniffed. "Uh, I know it's a lot to ask, but... don't die? Please?"

Castiel's chest rose and he puffed. He could have made any number of remarks saying that there wasn't exactly anything he could do to keep that from happening, that even that was obvious to the foolish man. But he chose to entertain Sam's request.

"..._No promises_."

Sam grimaced. His thumbs brushed over Castiel's plain tan coat. This man had done so much for them, and he knew it. The least he could do was to stay with him in his last moments. Sam was already thinking about where he would build Castiel's pyre. Probably out behind the bunker. Dean's too. They'd probably wind up sharing a pyre, just to save time and laborious effort. As for Gadreel—well, there were only so many bodies that Sam was willing to stash in the Impala. He stared absently at ground zero. He didn't dare look at Dean's corpse, or Gadreel's. If only there was something more he could do.

Sam Winchester had considered trading his soul. He could make a demon deal to get Castiel a reboot. As for Dean... Sam hung his head. He remembered fighting with Dean about this very issue. Would he follow through, and leave Dean be? Or would he overstep the boundary and force him to come back?

No, he was treading water in a sea of lost souls. He couldn't let his brother endure that kind of torment. If Heaven was open for business, that might be a different story. Maybe. But what good would a demon deal do in the end? He would just wind up landing his own ass in Hell. Sam could very well imagine a demon trying to, and convincing him to, sell his own soul short of ten years because Dean was that valuable. Hell, Dean had only gotten a single year in exchange for _him_. There had to be another way—

Sam stared at the shattered concrete.

"...Cas!"

Once again, Sam was nagging the angel from slumber. Castiel was shaken awake and his eyes were wide. Pain stabbed through his jaw. If the angel was honest with himself, the hunter was beginning to get on his nerves.

"Cas, take my soul!" Sam urged.

"_What?_"

"You heard me! Take my soul!"

"..._I can't do that_-"

"Yes you can!" Sam grabbed one of Castiel's loose hands and shoved it up against his ribs. "DO IT!"

"_I CAN'T LEAVE YOU SOULLESS AGAIN!_" Castiel roared, raw from pain, to Sam's surprise.

"...THEN TAP INTO MY SOUL!" Sam argued, "Stick your hand in my chest and do what you gotta do! QUICK-!" Sam's voice cracked, and his head ducked down, hair falling around his face. Castiel mentally compared the color to Aslan's mane. "I just lost Dean— Cas, don't make me lose you too..."

Dean's brother could be a stubborn ass when he wanted to be. Castiel didn't have anything to say to this. He searched for Sam's eyes. Though he was unsure what the consequences would be, the angel pushed his fingers into Sam's ribs.

A burning hot light pierced through his flesh, and Sam screamed.


	6. Cruising Down Memory Lane

Dean threw himself back against his seat. Damn it, he had fallen asleep behind the wheel again. His hands grabbed the steering wheel and he jerked it thinking he was about to run off the road, but the wheel locked. Breathing heavily, Dean looked out through the windshield and he realized that he wasn't actually even driving that fast. He was coasting. At less than ten miles per hour. Relieved, Dean relaxed against the bench seat again. He sighed through an 'o' in his lips. The hunter pressed his foot on the gas pedal— but it was jammed. Unable to accelerate, he tried the brakes next. Also jammed. Dean pressed his foot on the brake pedal as hard as possible, but it wasn't budging.

"What the hell-?" He reached down under. There was probably something obstructing the levers. Or he could be wrong. But when Dean straightened back up, the roof of Impala— it was _gone_.

Baffled, Dean looked up and around. The Impala wasn't a convertible, it had _never _been a convertible- This was beginning to freak Dean out.

"_Who are you and what have you done with my baby?_" Dean whispered as he rubbed a foreign but familiar dashboard in shock.

The radio switched on, and he jerked his hand back. He half-expected a voice to answer him, but a smooth melodious instrumental played instead. Dean pressed the off button. It didn't turn off. Dean tried seeking new stations. The radio was stuck in an other-worldly ambience.

"... I'm dreaming," Dean concluded, "I'm having a really weird dream. I'm– in the bunker, asleep-" Lights flashed as he tried to recall what he had last been doing, and the hunter flinched, shielding his view. But the lights were _in _his eyes. He rubbed them thoroughly and blinked. He looked up again. "—I'm having a nightmare," he amended to himself.

Dean sat quietly as the Impala cruised along a lonely, dark road. He thought about jumping ship–hell, nothing was stopping him–but abandoning the car like this was a cardinal sin. He tried to steer the black abomination, stop it, even gun it, but the Impala seemed to have a mind of its own. It swerved gracefully around each bend it crossed and there didn't seem to be any ill intent to harm Dean present. The car was simply driving itself. But where in God's name was it taking him?

"_Welcome to the Grand Tour,_" a voice suddenly buzzed through the speakers. Dean's brows knit and his eyes widened at the radio.

"_Sam?_"

"_I'll be your guide as we explore the wonders of Heaven,_" the voice continued loftily as if bliss had taken Dean's brother by the short and curlies. The voice's tone completely weirded Dean out.

"... Heaven, huh?" he said, looking straight out again.

"_Let us proceed to Exhibit A._"

Something was coming up on Dean's left. He squinted at it, but soon enough, he was riding by an animated sequence that looked all too real to him. A boy in a heavy-duty leather jacket was standing with a girl who had hazelnut skin. Dean recognized them immediately. The boy was himself from a few years back. The girl was Cassie Robinson, the girl who once held his record for the longest-lasting relationship. This had to be before he spilled the beans on his hunting life to her. Dean glanced at the radio, which had gotten quiet, save for the soundtrack. The Impala creaked to a stop–a noise which made Dean cringe–and idled for the hunter to absorb what he was watching. The couple was enamored with one another. They kissed. Dean unthinkingly touched his own lips at the memory as he watched.

The Impala began to crawl again after a few minutes, and the voice returned.

"_Exhibit B._"

The next show featured a clip with Sam, Dean, and their father. It was one of the few, rare moments in which Dean associated a happy memory with John. Sam was graduating middle school. John looked so proud of him, and Dean did too. That was a good day. John treated the boys out to ice cream sundaes. He gave Sam fifty dollars of free-to-spend-on-whatever-the-hell-you-want money at the stand. It was much more than Dean had gotten when he graduated, but everyone was happy regardless.

"_On to Exhibit C._"

Exhibit C being a particular fun time he had once with one of the cheerleaders back at one of the many high schools he attended. He couldn't remember which school, and he certainly couldn't remember her name. But she delivered for sure. Dean found himself smiling and nodding approvingly at the teen boy who had serious game. He dropped it though, suddenly feeling weird for being turned on by revisiting this chunk of his life. Rustled, Dean hooked his hands on the steering wheel.

"Okay, Sam, let's beat it-" he said.

"_Coming up: Exhibit D,_" the voice responded a moment later.

The Impala pulled up, and this time Dean had to look to his right. The car pulled him up to a house that looked all too familiar.

The front door opened, and out stepped Lisa Braeden. Dean was hooked on this exhibit instantly. He saw Lisa, beautiful as she was, fighting a strong breeze that was ruining her hair. She closed the door behind her. She was all dressed up to go to work. Dean knew what was going to happen next. The front door opened again, and Dean saw himself poke his head out. He was laughing as she battled the elements, and he reeled her in for a goodbye kiss. Suddenly Lisa didn't mind the wind so much. He reeled her in for that kiss. And more.

Dean watched himself pull Lisa back into the house and shut the door. Ben had already been sent off to school. Nobody was around to interrupt the wild quickie they engaged in. Dean was now watching a cutout of himself doing particularly scandalous things to his girlfriend. The flush of Lisa's cheeks, and her laugh—

Dean blinked and tore his eyes away, throwing his hands up.

"Alright, screw this-"

He climbed out of the Impala, jumping over the driver's door, which was locked. Digging his hands into his pockets, he hurried up the road, ahead of the car.

Dean looked around himself. So he was back in Heaven. Again. For the God-knows-how many-eth time. He remembered the last time he was here, Castiel told him to follow the road, the_ Axis Mundi_, or whatever he called it. It would lead him to the Garden, but then what? How would he get back to earth from there? The last time he and Sam had been airlifted back, it was by the power of the gardener, Joshua. (Speaking of Joshua, was he still even alive? He wondered this briefly.) Dean's only hope of returning to Sam and Castiel was completely at the mercy of the angels. He hated to even admit it. And if all the angels in Heaven sympathized with Metatron now, who would be generous–or stupid enough–to help him?

Dean didn't have many options at this point.

"HEY!" he shouted to the literal heavens above, "I KNOW YOU'RE THERE! SOMEBODY'S GOTTA BE WATCHING OVER ME, RIGHT?"

That didn't earn him a response.

"HELLO?!"

Still no reply.

Miffed, the only other choice Dean saw left was to follow the yellow-lined road.

So he did.


	7. Ode To Gadreel

Sam felt like his lungs were on the verge of collapse. Getting energy siphoned from your soul was _not _a waltz in the meadow. This was just about as painful as the time Death re-inserted his soul. It fell a few notches short. Sam couldn't breathe while Castiel had his hand buried in his torso. Not only that, but the fires of Hell were eating his insides. His consciousness threatened to leave him. Sam's veins burst colors of light, as his eyes popped open and squeezed shut at sporadic intervals. Castiel tried to be quick about it, he really did. But soul-tapping was tricky. One wrong move and Sam would pop like a "water balloon full of chunky soup", so artfully worded by the assumed late prophet Chuck Shurley. While it was painful for Sam, it was revitalizing for Castiel. But he had to be careful not to absorb too much energy. He didn't want to wind up eating Sam's soul up completely.

Sam was a life-saver and this was by no means an exaggeration.

Castiel pulled his hand out of Sam's chest, and the moment he was free of it, Sam collapsed, gasping and wheezing for air. Castiel moved quickly, grabbing his own jaw. He jerked the loose bone together and muffled a cry of his own as he worked to heal himself. When his jaw was fixed, he rolled over and got up.

"Sam?!"

Castiel feared that he might have come way too close to leaching Sam completely. Sam wasn't responding.

"...No-" He shoved two fingers up under Sam's jaw to find his carotid artery. Thankfully he found a pulse, and relaxed. Sam had just passed out. Castiel remain kneeled where he was with his fists balled on his knees. He looked around at the mess. Sam was out cold, so it was looking like he would have to take care of Dean and Gadreel himself. _And _Sam-

Castiel got up and surveyed the crime scene. He was well aware that a hunter's funeral should be put in order for his fallen brother. Or maybe he should just bury him– Regardless, he couldn't leave Gadreel to rot like this. The angel noticed he was already blood-stained, no thanks to Sam, so he got to work on Gadreel.

Customarily, when a vesseled angel died on earth, they'd be taken back to Heaven for proper grievance and care. But Gadreel was an angel with a sullied name. He was among the most dishonored of angels. Surely even now, they wouldn't accept him, would they? Castiel wouldn't be able to get Gadreel home, like countless other angels, but he could do him a service.

Castiel built Gadreel a pyre outside. It wasn't a very big pyre, but he did his best to make it presentable. Ceremonious. He even picked wild flowers and laced the pyre with them. He uprooted the weeds and grasses around the pyre so that the fire wouldn't spread. He even wove a floral wreath for Gadreel out of daisies, Queen Anne's lace, and tiger lilies growing wild. Dragging Gadreel's mutilated corpse outside was a chore all by itself. He had five inches on Castiel and weighed nearly as much as he did. He rested Gadreel on the pyre, and decided to copy Katniss Everdeen: he dressed the wound over with more flowers and even when he ran out of flowers he went for the cleaner grasses. When he stood back to admire his work solemnly, the angel was satisfied. He borrowed salt and kerosene from the trunk of the Impala. He didn't want to defile Gadreel any further this way, but he knew what he had to do. Respectfully as possible, he dressed his brother in the salt and flammable liquid. Finally, he snapped a twig, and when squeezing it, it caught a flame. He dropped the twig onto the pyre.

The deathbed erupted in blue, licking up into the air an orange-white.

Castiel watched the whole time. He watched until Gadreel was nothing more than a charred husk of flesh and ash. As he watched, Castiel did something no angel had ever done before. He knew it to be a sign of respect when the gesture was performed among humans. He had seen it done on TV, and he had read it in the library of books that Metatron had given him.

Castiel stood pin-straight, and saluted.


	8. Pitstop

Dean didn't know how long he had been walking, but he knew he was getting nowhere fast. He blew through another seven memories or so. He'd have to admit he did get distracted easily during his travels. But one particular memory made him stop altogether. This would have been "Exhibit K", according to Sam-bot back there– Dean wondered what would happen when he got to Exhibit Z. Maybe then he would reach the Garden. This was almost enough incentive to skip over this memory completely. Almost.

This was a memory of him, Sam and Castiel. It was surprisingly good memory, considering all the crap that was going down at the time.

Castiel rarely had the time to just come on down from Heaven and help them out, much less just hang out, but this one time was the single exception. Dean had invited the angel down for drinks. He had made a bet with Sam to see just how much it would take for Castiel to get tipsy. He had two-hundred bucks wagered on this. Sam was betting that Castiel would never get drunk because of the "holy goodness" inside him. Dean begged to differ. Actually the fact of the matter was, the brothers had been holding on to their rivaling theories for a while. They had never gotten the opportunity to conduct the actual test until now.

Dean watched as Castiel appeared in a blip on-screen. They casually invited him to drink with them. The angel declined. Dean snickered.

"Cas, you stupid bastard...," he trailed off, watching with amused fascination as they worked him up to it. It was very entertaining to watch this from a third-person perspective. The slightly hunched angel finally took a seat and Sam handed him his first bottle. He peeled off the metal cap with his bare hand. Castiel took a swig, and sloshed the liquid around in his mouth a bit before swallowing. He said it tasted funny. Dean replied that it was supposed to and that he'd get used to it. Sam and Dean had been careful not to get themselves drunk; it'd be a shame if they were too hammered to appreciate a rare phenomenon in the moment. Castiel, however, was pretty reckless with his drinking. Newbs.

As it turned out, Castiel wasn't quite as immune as either of them were expecting. His tolerance was abnormally high for someone who didn't ever drink, but by his fifth beer, he confused "prostitutes" with "pedestrians" when loosely recounting ancient Babylonian whorehouses. Sam choked on his drink. Dean nearly fell out of his seat laughing. He leaned over to a coughing Sam with an ear-marked grin, and said, "_Dude, pay up._"

Dean was laughing at this memory even now. He doubled over, and capped his knees with his hands. He wiped a tear from his eye before straightening again.

"_Damn_," he said, feeling oddly refreshed, "_Whoo._" That two-hundred bucks went to renewing his BustyAsianBeauties online membership, a new set of wrenches, and more beer to go around. It looked like this memory had played all the way through, because it was looping. As much as Dean wanted to stay, the Garden was waiting.

Onward, wayward son.


	9. Roadtrip: Back to Home Base

Sam finally stirred from pain-induced sleep. It took a few seconds to figure out where he was. He was in the passenger's seat of the Impala. For a very brief moment, Sam was positive that everything that had happened was just a bad dream, that he had dozed off on an overnight cross-country drive. But when he turned his head, he saw Castiel behind the wheel. Sam flinched and his moro reflex kicked in. He grasped at the leather upholstery, as if seeing the angel _driving _Dean's car completely rocked his world. Which it did.

"I'm glad you're awake, Sam," Castiel said, keeping his eyes on the twilight-lit road. "I... hope you know I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Cas, what the hell-" the younger Winchester stopped. "..._Where's Dean?_"

Castiel spared a moment to nod towards the backseat. Sam grappled with his own seat belt and the bench seat to look over it. Dean was wrapped up in a dingy blanket, buckled in behind Castiel. If he didn't have blood dried on his face, he would've looked like he was fast asleep. Sam couldn't gauge how disturbed he was feeling. Or how disturbed he was _supposed_ to feel.

After hesitating, Sam scoffed lightly, "... Dean would kill you if you ruined his leather..." He sat back properly in the passenger's seat. "... Hell, he'd kill you just for _driving _this damn car." Castiel glanced over at Sam.

"... I'm sorry."

"Just-," Sam cut him off, "stow it, Cas. Don't say anything."

Castiel's gaze became downcast. Sam's head tipped back, bumping against the head rest. The angel heard a long, loud sigh huff from the man's nose. They rode in silence for a minute.

"... Pull over," Sam said, staring out the windshield. Castiel's brows bunched.

"What?"

"I said _pull the damn car over._"

The Impala glided slowly onto the shoulder. Castiel put the car in "park". Sam unbuckled his belt, popped open his door and tumbled out. Castiel unbuckled himself and jumped out too.

"Sam?"

Sam got sick right there on the side of the road.

Castiel stooped next to Sam, who was on his hands and knees. He didn't hesitate to place a hand on Sam's back. The angel didn't ask stupid questions, or say anything. Sam's stomach was doing pirouettes. The world was tipping underneath him and he was afraid he might wind up collapsing into his own vomit. Castiel noticed this and heaved Sam back. Together they sat on the gravel, backs against the black body of Dean's baby. Sam's breath smelled hideous, and his saliva tasted worse. Sam leaned into Cas and wept. Castiel embraced him.

"It's my fault!" he cried out, "_I killed him_-"

He had never once cried in his entire life, but right now, the angel felt an ungodly sting in his sinuses, a precursor to tear-shedding. He was a warrior, he knew that. Warriors didn't cry, especially ones of his design. But in that moment, Castiel never felt more human. But even then, Castiel managed to reserve himself for Sam's sake. Sam needed him. He was supposed to be his crutch, and crutches are worthless if they collapse under the load they're expected to carry.

Castiel smelled a faint tinge of soap in Sam's hair, but it was dominated by natural oils. It felt like forever before the angel dared to try his hand at verbal condolence.

"... Sam, Dean left the Veil."

"... _What?_" Sam croaked.

"I don't know what happened to him, but he disappeared. I couldn't find him in Veil after you passed out, not in the immediate vicinity of where he-..." he cleared his throat, "I looked everywhere. I think he was plucked from the Veil. He may have been brought to Heaven. Probably by Metatron." This was supposed to make Sam feel better? Castiel persevered. "... I know Metatron, and he isn't a callous savage. More than likely, Dean is in Heaven, unharmed, and not suffering."

Sam picked up his head and looked at his friend. The expression Castiel saw on Sam's face was pained nevertheless.

"Sam, it _wasn't your fault._" Castiel bored his eyes into Sam's. "This tragedy... it was entirely situational-"

"_Don't even say that I couldn't have stopped this from happening_," Sam warned through hot tears. Castiel dropped what he was going to say next. Instead he reconsidered his words.

"...Believe me, I'm very upset as well-"

"Then _show some emotion, Cas!_" Sam erupted, jamming his heel forward into the gravel with frustration. The Winchester's weight rammed back against the side of the Impala, and the car took personal offense by rocking on its axles. "God, it's like you're becoming a–a _robot_ again!"

Clearly that wasn't the right way to go. Time to try a different approach.

"... I can't rightfully lay a claim to your brother, Sam, because he's not my brother by blood... But it does bring to mind a quote that I know: Someone once said, "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb"." Sam listened silently as Castiel spoke. There wasn't any end to the surprises that he had in store, was there? He was a little impressed by the wisdom the angel uttered forth. Castiel had stopped speaking, and a small, asymmetrical smile appeared on his face. "—And, wasn't it _Bobby_ who said that family don't end in blood?"

It took a while before Sam suggested they finally get up. Sam's tears were dry, but he had a monster headache.

"You left the ignition on," he said to the angel, as he rubbed his forehead. "We're burning gas off the clock."

Castiel rose with him and he started around the car, but Sam stopped him.

"I'll drive the rest of the way back." Castiel looked put off.

"Sam, are you sure you're well enough to drive?"

"Absolutely," Sam said, after rolling his shoulders to stretch out the kinks in his joints. Castiel wasn't entirely convinced. He hesitated. Sam noticed Castiel's obvious distrust.

"...I'm not gonna go suicidally commando and drive us off the nearest cliff," he swore. Especially not when they might be Dean's only hope of coming back. Sam believed that the angel must have realized this as well, because he moved to the passenger door. Sam's shoulders sagged, and words hooked on his lips. "–Cas, wait."

Castiel stopped and turned back to Sam, only to get swallowed up in a bear hug from the tall man. Sam patted his back affectionately. Castiel didn't need Sam to tell him to hug back this time.

"... I'm sorry for going off on you like that." Castiel was looking into the dark over Sam's shoulder as he rubbed Sam's back in exchange.

"It's forgiven," he said, tipping his head back a bit to get his mouth out of Sam's shirt. "...We will rescue Dean, Sam. We'll find a way."

"I know." Sam was smiling now. It was an aching smile, but it was something. The two men got back into the Impala. But before Sam got behind the wheel, he opened up the rear door and spent a minute to clean up his brother's face. Together, Team Free Will retreated back to the bunker once again. Castiel trusted Sam enough to get them back home safely. Sam was confident in Castiel's promise.

But nothing could scrub away the eeriness of Dean's dead body in the backseat.


	10. Where's the Road?

Dean had to stop for a breath. How many more memories was he going to have to waltz through? He lost count, but he was hoping that he was in the twenties by now. Exhibit Z couldn't be much farther-

Dean willed himself forward. He picked up a slow jog on the road. It had occurred to him that his heaven was much different from the heaven his soul created the last time he was here. But maybe that was because his heaven had been a mashup of his and Sam's. Would this be his Heaven without Sam? Whatever the case, it didn't truly matter in the end. He just had to reach Exhibit Z. All he knew for sure was that if he had taken the car, he would've been able to live at least fifty more lifetimes going from Point A to Point Z. He may have had all of eternity, but Sam and Castiel didn't have the time-

A sudden weight crushed his chest.

Yeah, Cas had to be dead by now.

And if his fears were correct, Sam might not be that far behind him.

Dean punted a stray tin can, unfurling a furious warrior's yell. His body wrenched this way and that as he paced around the middle of the road. He laced his fingers behind his head and tucked his elbows forward as his inhaled sharply through his nose. He broke off in a mad sprint, screaming to the heavens as he did. He flew down the asphalt. Screw Heaven. There was trouble in paradise, and Dean Winchester was _not_ going to just sit back and take it.

Of course, Dean remembered that Ash and Pamela Barnes were here. Somewhere. But he had no way of getting to them, much less making any contact at all. This infuriated him even more. He had friends here on the inside, but he couldn't suss them out for help. They were lost in a network of billions of interwoven dimensions. Or quite possibly dead. If Metatron had the slightest clue about them, he could've had them smote off the face of Heaven. Finished. Permanently.

God he hoped not, or Dean would have just one more reason he would sink the First Blade into Metatron's smug, ugly face.

A bad misstep going around a sharp bend sent Dean stumbling off of the road. He acted quickly to recover, but he knew just how badly he fucked up when inertia carried his upper body forward despite the fumble that snagged his feet.

Dean hit the ground hard and kept going. He tumbled down an unfortunately steep decline and into the woods that safeguarded his road. Had this been earth, he surely would have broken a few bones. Said few being the vertebrae in his neck. Or hitting the tree at the bottom would have done him in. Dean lay still for a few moments, stunned by the violent turbidity of his fall. His eyes were wide and the world–or _heaven_–was upside-down. His legs, up in the air, fell forward in front of his face. Dean groaned. Not from pain, but that tumble wasn't exactly a joyride. The hunter was able to get back up no problem.

"...Huh."

He took a moment to flex his arms, legs– everything seemed good. But now he had to climb back up this mother of a hill.

"...Great," he sighed, "just what I needed."

He dug his fingers into the earth and began to tear his way up. He had to get to Sam. He had to. And all the while, he wondered what was waiting for him at Exhibit Z.

It took too long for Dean to scale the incline, but when he reached the road... it wasn't there.

Dean wheeled around frantically. He was sure it had been right here. But the landscape was different now. He was standing on a sodden plateau and the way the hill wound— it was completely different now. Oh, this had to be a joke–

"REAL FUNNY, GUYS!" Dean shouted at the sky, "HAHA, THIS IS HILARIOUS-PUT IT BACK."

The road didn't reappear. If anything good came out of this, it was that Dean now knew for certain that he was being watched.

Oh wait.

That wasn't a good thing at all.


	11. Hello the Cabin!

**TWs for this chapter: Superficial mention of suicide.**

* * *

"_Follow the road... Follow... the road..._"

Dean turned slowly to his left. Climbing uphill into the trees, a path suddenly appeared. It was a small dirt trail that didn't look like much to go by, but hell, he'd take it.

"_Follow the road._" Dean pumped his legs to get a powered start, and he leaped up with gusto. He grabbed onto smaller trees so as not to lose his balance and fall back down.

Dean traveled through the woods for what felt like miles. He never dared to so much as step one pace off of the path. When he thought about it, how were the angels rearranging the landscape of his heaven? It was _his _heaven. _His soul_ was what shaped it. That had to be against the rules or something, for angels to interfere like that. But then again, Metatron wasn't playing by the rules. Unless they were the ones he instilled. And he was as good as a prisoner here. The angels wouldn't let him find the Garden.

Dean stopped walking.

Why was he even trying then? It was pointless to fight against the divine beings who had seized jurisdiction from him over his own slice of Heaven.

Well, Sam, for one thing.

Dean took off again.

He walked until the landscape began to get extremely rocky. Strange outcrops of stone made it tricky to navigate. It took a few minutes for Dean to recognize this place. His family had come here a long time ago. It was the Catskills. Poughkeepsie. This was before Sam flew the coop, abandoned him and John for college. The Catskills were offshot to the west of the Hudson, away from Poughkeepsie, but he remembered coming here with Sam and John to exterminate a nest of vampires. They had thought they got the job done. Until they crashed in a motel in Poughkeepsie the following night. Little did they know that this coven was actually a much larger network that had rooted itself in the Hudson Valley— that was the first time that the Winchester family ever had to back out of a fight. And by back out, I mean _flee_. John called in hunters from all over to help. It had been a long, gruesome fight, but the vamps' numbers dwindled significantly. It was the largest known nest on the East Coast, but following this war on vamps, crossing one of its ilk became a much more rare phenomenon-

Dean shook his head from his thoughts, and he looked around the rocks. If he remembered his way around correctly, he'd find the cavern where the victims had been stashed coming up pretty soon.

"_Psst!_"

Dean froze.

"_Psst!_"

Like a clueless idiot, Dean turned every which way.

"_Hey!_" a voice whispered, "_Down here!_"

Dean's eyes turned down.

He jumped out of his skin seeing a pair of eyes staring back up at him through dirt, and reeled back until he hit a wall of stone.

"Damn it— _ASH!_" he shouted.

"_Hey, whoa-!_" the voice cautioned, but it wasn't coming from the ground now. Dean jerked away from the wall of rock when a second pair of eyes suddenly appeared right next to his face. "_Don't use use my name, brother!_"

"_What the hell-_" the hunter started angrily.

"You've got yourself in quite a pickle, Dean," Ash said matter-of-fact, "Angels– they got all eyes on you." The eyes in the rock blinked, and Dean got the willies.

"How the hell are you doing that?" he asked, looking horrified.

"You learn new things everyday- But _listen to me, Dean_," Ash told him quite seriously, "_You're being watched._"

"Yeah, I know," he snapped back.

"No, I mean _that douchebag Metatron's got his best eyes on you._"

"... How many?"

"_Six sets._"

Dean chewed his cheek. Damn it.

"So you see why I gotta talk to you like this."

"Yeah."

Ash went quiet for a moment.

"...Ash-?"

"I'm pickin' up interference– alright, listen. I don't have much time, but I'm gonna guide you _to me_. I'm hidin' out here, and I've got a door waitin'. That's our ticket outta here. The angels're gonna go haywire once they see you've gone missin', so we gotta be quick about this."

"Got it," Dean said.

"Oh, and- try _not to speak to me as much as possible._ _They can hear you, but for the time being, I'm off their radar._"

He nodded.

"_Alright, follow my voice-_" Suddenly Ash was far away, and Dean searched for him quickly. He spotted Ash's eyes on a rock twenty feet away. He walked towards them, keeping his lips pressed together, as if even breathing too loud would attract the angels' attention. When he reached Ash's eyes, they vanished again.

"_Psst!_"

Dean looked up. Another twenty feet or so out, the eyes were stuck on a tree.

Ash continued to Hansel-and-Gretel Dean until the hunter found the opening of a small cave. He quickly got down and crawled inside. In the dark, Dean whispered, "_Ash?!_"

A pair of slender, but muscled arms suddenly embraced him, and he was caught off guard. Dean couldn't see Ash in the dark, but he hugged him back anyway.

"_'_S good to see you, Dean," said Ash.

"I'd say the same, but I can't see two inches in front of me," the hunter replied. Ash snickered at his humor.

A warp of energy pierced the cave, and the entire interior was lit up but a pure white light. Dean watched as the light outlined what appeared to be the door that Ash spoke off. As soon as the door materialized, Ash yanked it open, and pushed Dean in. The lanky man jumped through after him, and slammed it shut.

Dean found the welcoming sight of the Roadhouse greeting him once again. He spun around to see Ash drawing out a sigil on the door with chalk. When he finished, he slapped the door with his palm and walked away proudly.

"Those dicks ain't gonna be able to trace us now," he said, hitching his thumbs in his jeans.

"Wow, you really know your way around," said Dean. Ash hadn't let go of his proud smile.

"Well, when it comes down to it, Heaven's like a celestial super-computer."

"And that _thing _you did with your eyes- which was totally creepy, by the way-"

"I scrambled with the interface," Ash's smile turned into a smirk, "It's tricky precision work, but I've mastered it-"

"Ash, Frank's picked up on something-"

Both men turned their heads to see none other than Pamela Barnes emerging from the backroom.

"... Dean!" she raised her brows with a broad grin, "Seems like Ash's suicide mission was a success-"

"It wasn't a _suicide mission_-"

"You went and got yourself ass-deep in angel turf-"

"_Everywhere in Heaven is angel turf-_"

"Good to see you, Pamela," Dean interrupted their spat, "You look even better than the last time I saw you."

"Oh, stop," Pamela swatted a hand at him.

"Frank's got something?" Ash asked, trying to get back on track.

"Yeah." The woman motioned for him and Dean to follow her. The backroom was dim, but a whole wall of computer monitors was more than enough to compensate for the poor lighting. Dean squeezed in behind Ash and Pamela.

"Whaddya got, Frank?"

"Damn _angels_ are chipping away at our firewalls." The man named Frank turned away from the screens to look up at them. "They're onto us, Ash-"

"_Frank?_" Dean perched in disbelief, "_Frank Devereaux?_"

"Well, if it isn't Frank Hardy," the computer-savy tech spewed sarcastically, "Where's Joe?"

"...Alive, I hope," Dean said, "... Sorry about, uh, gettin' you killed."

"_Killed?_" Frank questioned incredulously, "You idiots didn't kill me."

"But when we went your trailer— there was blood _everywhere. _We thought the Leviathans got you."

"Oh, that," the hack mused, "Nah, that was me putting you bozos off of my trail."

Dean dipped his head and blinked.

"_Excuse me?_"

"I knew I was in too deep with you clowns, so I bailed. Fixed my own death scene and swan-dived off the grid."

Dean was giving him the most bizarre look.

"_What?_" Frank snapped, "Didn't Bobby Singer warn ya before sending ya over to me? I'm a paranoid nut job!"

"So, if the Levis didn't get you, what _did?_"

Frank sat back in his chair, tight-lipped as they waited for his answer. Finally, the hack sighed through his nose, and tapped his temple with a thick index finger.

"... You _offed yourself?_" Dean concluded.

"Hey, if you had to choose between getting torn to shreds or snuffin' your own candle— It _ain't _cowardly, what I did." Frank swivelled back around in his chair to face the computers. Keys clacked under his fingers.

"If you'll excuse me, I've got asses to cover. Yours included."


	12. Getting Up To Speed

"Wait a minute," Dean stopped Ash as the were leaving Frank's office, "You're telling me that _you and Pamela_ are leading an army of _souls_ against Metatron?"

"That's right, bud," said Ash.

"So... Where's the party?" Dean asked, looking around. Only the two of them were in the Roadhouse.

"Dean, my heaven ain't big enough to host an _army_."

"_Try my place_." The boys turned to see Pamela emerge from the backroom.

"Your heaven?" Dean echoed.

"Yeah," she slunk up beside the hunter and pat his shoulder, "I've got the Meadowlands, remember?"

"So you turned _your heaven_-"

"Into a military base?" she finished, "Yeah. I didn't want to, but hey, everyone's gotta do their part in fighting the good fight."

"Hold on-" interrupted the hunter, turning back to Ash, "How did you learn about _Metatron?_ How do you even know who he is?"

"...Remember the Holy-Rollin' Police Scanner?"

"Uh– yeah," Dean shook his head, which contrasted his response.

"Well, when the angels fell... I heard it." Ash was looking squarely into Dean's eyes now. "The scanner went berserk. Angels were screaming left and right. I thought my ears were gonna start bleedin'. Scanner exploded from overfeed, but before it did—I _heard him_."

"You heard Metatron?"

"He was _laughing_, Dean. 'You'll thank me in due time,' he said, 'Somebody has to fix our home, and I'll the be the one to do it'."

"Yeah, his _"renovations"_ leveled Ash's heaven," bit Pamela as she folded her arms. Dean looked around. The Roadhouse seemed perfectly fine. "... The angels fixed it," she added, "But you should have seen it, Dean, it looked like a earthquake tore through here."

"And my crib wasn't the only heaven that suffered from the aftershock," said Ash, "Metatron was _ripping_ Heaven apart. He was emtrying /emto reconstruct it."

"Yeah, looks like he did a hell of a job," said Dean, as he eyes traced along the ceiling. "...So let me guess. Your soldiers would be the souls of heavens that were disrupted by Metatron's project."

"And more," said Pamela. "We've got workers in the field as we speak, trying to convert people, get 'em on our side."

"_Convert people?_" This was starting to sound too cult-ish for Dean's pallet.

"It ain't easy, Dean," Ash spoke up, "Trying to convince people that "God" is really a malevolent angel." The hunter needed a quick moment to let that sink in.

"They think _he's_ God?"

"Well why wouldn't they?" said Pamela, "It's not like we had any rock-solid proof to coerce them. Metatron's playing God, and he's doing a damn good job convincing people of that. Nobody's ever even seen Metatron. But even if we could show his face to people, how does that help us convince anyone he's evil? It's exactly like trying to convince people of faith that their God isn't real."

"What about the destroyed heavens?"

"That still wasn't enough evidence," Pamela told Dean, dismayed.

"Not enough evidence? How the hell was that not enough evidence?" he challenged, "Just shove their faces in it, and they'd have seen that something was screwy."

"_Believe me, Dean, we tried,_" Pamela responded harshly, "But some people are so set in their ways that they refuse to see reason when it's _right in front of them_."

Everyone was quiet for a minute.

"...Well, not that it'll help, but I've seen Metatron, and he's as ugly as ugly gets," Dean said, in an attempt to reconcile.

"Good to know," Pamela replied.

* * *

**Actually, I did start writing another fiction here which explores in greater detail Ash and Pamela's side of this story, which starts with the angels falling and how Heaven was affected by The Fall. It's unfinished, unfortunately, but if you're interested in reading it, check out my story: _"Campaign For Heaven_**_**"**_**.**

**Thank you for reading if you've made it this far! Reviews and all such feedback are appreciated! **


	13. Cavalry's Calling

When Ash opened the doorway to Pamela's heaven, he was above and beyond amazed. Aside from the makeshift bustling of fake patrons, every living soul was organized. The sports stadiums had been transformed into training arenas. Stores and other outlets had been gutted for housing when Pamela ran out of hotel space. It was a smooth, flowing operation, and Dean Winchester couldn't believe that Ash and Pamela had pulled all of this off by themselves. The only thing that put Dean off about all of this, was seeing that children were active participants in this crusade as well.

"Don't worry, we're not sending them to die," said Pamela as they walked by a section of children receiving some kind of militaristic lecture.

"Yeah, _that would be redundant_," Dean muttered under his breath. "...Pamela, I gotta ask," he said, stopping his friend, "...How exactly do you plan to win this fight? I mean, there are only five things I know of that can kill angels, and so far as I can tell, you don't have _any_ of those."

"And what are those five things?" asked Pamela, cocking a hip.

"Angel blades, holy oil, Leviathans, demons if they're lucky, and other angels," said Dean, counting right off of his fingers for her. Dean considered adding the Colt to that list, but he wasn't even sure it would work. It certainly didn't work on Lucifer.

"I dunno, Dean, you and Sam have downed your fair share of angels," said Pamela.

"And how would you know that?"

"You told me."

"—When?"

"One of the hundreds of other times your ass was winged up here."

"...Oh." Dean forgot that last time wasn't the first time he or Sam had paid Heaven a visit. "But we used _weapons_, Pamela. Not our bare hands."

"That doesn't mean that we still don't stand a chance."

Dean just looked at her.

"What happened to you, Pam...?" She certainly wasn't the same fun, flirtatious woman that Dean remembered from his last trip Upstairs.

"... A _lot_," she said, rubbing one of her eyes. Dean didn't want to ask.

"... Hey-" he perked up, suddenly remembering, "Bobby—" The hunter grabbed the psychic by the shoulder as she was turning away from him. "We sent Bobby up here. Sam got him out of Hell and sent him packing to Cloud Nine– Where is he? Did you guys find him?"

Pamela, who seemed to be fighting an unprecedented battle within herself, looked up at him and managed a wilted smile.

"...Dean Winchester, you're in luck," she shook her head, "Follow me."

Dean followed Pamela out of what used to be a sporting goods store. They walked through crowds of bustling people, real and fake. It took a little while, but soon enough, they had left the mall complex that Ash had landed them in. Pamela lead Dean to one of the numerous stadiums that the Meadowlands encompassed, and Dean was surprised to see people–_soldiers–_on the football field, sparring and engaging in over various training exercises. Somehow, this all seemed mundane to Dean. No amount of training would help them to overpower and kills angels. Angels trumped humans like Bruce Lee trumped a harmless old lady. But Dean noticed where they were headed, and his eyes became fixed on two figures standing at the fifty-yard line.

One of them was pretty tall. The other, not quite as tall, but came pretty close. Dean didn't recognize the shorter man from this far, but he could tell right away who the taller man was. Even in Heaven he still wore that damn trucker's cap and flannel. Dean had to restrain himself from breaking out into a run across the field.

Pamela stopped a yard away. Bobby's back was facing them, shielding the unknown second person from view.

"Knock-knock," she said with a grin.

Bobby turned around, breaking off his conversation. He stared, wide-eyed at Dean. Dean, unable to keep from smiling, threw out his arms.

"Guess who."

Bobby, though stunned, moved immediately to embrace his surrogate son.

"It's good to see you, boy-" he said breathlessly. Dean was only caught up in this sweet reunion for a moment, for when he looked beyond his adoptive father's shoulder, he identified exactly who he had been talking to.

"—_Grandad?_"

Sure enough, there stood Henry Winchester, and awkwardly polite as ever, he offered a meager wave and a lip-pressed smile, despite standing less than five feet from him.

"Hello, Dean... I wasn't expecting you quite this soon."


	14. SOS

Sam and Castiel made it back to the bunker in one piece. They unloaded the precious cargo together. Dean was placed in his own room, on his bed. The soul-tapping job Castiel did on him really took a number though. By the time that Dean was laid to rest, Sam was so tuckered out that he just climbed onto the bed next to Dean and crashed. But he made sure his back was to his brother before doing so. Castiel took it upon himself to watch over both brothers, both dead and alive.

Since Castiel was recharged, he felt no immediate need for sleep at the moment. He was wide awake, energy buzzing through his borrowed veins. Theo's Grace was appreciative of the pick-me-up, but it didn't do much in the way of correcting its incompatibility with his being. And he knew that sooner or later he'd need another fix. Theo's Grace would burn through the juice that Sam had given him. Castiel didn't like this at all. He was a parasitic creature now. He'd live the rest of his days feeding off of others just to sustain himself. And he already sapped energy from one of his best friends to do so.

_Stupid_._ What the hell was I thinking?_ Castiel thought harshly to himself. He should've have just died right there in that concrete room with his brother. The angel couldn't exactly give Sam his energy back, not in its purest form anyway. It was too late for that. So he sat awake into the night, sitting in an armchair by the brothers' bed, thinking. He hovered a hand over Sam's back as the hunter snored lightly. The human's soul was weakened from the transfusion. He could feel it. Castiel had already seen what Sam was like without a soul. He didn't want to see his friend return to that empty state again. He thought about giving Sam some of his energy, however tainted it was, to give him some strength, but an idea came to his mind first. Sam would have to wait.

Castiel rose from his chair and quietly slipped out of the bedroom. He wound through the bunker, found the foyer, and climbed up the stairs to the two reinforced doors above. He was careful about opening them both, and he stole into the night once he broke free from the underground hideout. The angel was smart enough to take the key with him for leaving. He trusted that Sam wouldn't wake up before he returned. He was able to adjust to the lack of light, and could see well enough where he was going on the gravel road. He still couldn't fly though. Not on stolen Grace. Stealing Grace was like tearing an angel's wings from its back and gluing them onto your own. Theo's Grace wasn't stable enough for flight. Walking would have to suffice.

The air was cool and dry, but it didn't bother him too much. Castiel wandered out down the road, away from the treeline that introduced the woods where the bunker was nestled, out into the bluffs beyond. The ground became tangled and grassy beneath his feet, but in some places the ground became loose and sandy. The ground shifted under his feet and he almost fell down an incline once. Castiel knelt on a patch of sandy ground and etched a string of Enochian sigils into the dirt. These sigils served as a voice scrambler. Normally angels could naturally mimic voices, but that was beyond his capability now. Castiel sighed, rubbing his brow. This was stupid. Dangerous. He could imagine very clearly Dean doing the same thing when Sam got the holy hell beat out of him from the Trials. Praying. Castiel knew that praying for help was taking a huge risk. He wondered how many angels came running when Dean called. Or how many angels would come running when he called. Sam would not be pleased about this. They had already gotten through one round with "Ezekiel".

"Please, anyone. I need help. If anyone is there, please respond."

Castiel sat on his haunches and waited a few minutes in silence. A long, silver spike protruded from his sleeve and he grasped it tightly before picking himself up from the ground. No one answered. Maybe it was because Heaven was still boarded up, therefore the angels couldn't traverse _any_ inter-dimensional planes at all. But Metatron won. There were no more factions to resist him. The angels were his for the taking.

Castiel repeated his message.

"_Please_, I need help. If anyone is there, please respond."

A large bluster of wind raked his hair and disturbed his coat. Castiel spun around instantly, to be met by a tall figure who had the wide eyes and the straight face of a perplexed animal. The figure wore a skirt and heels.


	15. Ruth

A nightmare jostled Sam from slumber.

Oddly enough, nowhere in this nightmare did Dean's death occur.

It started out with a strange sight.

Sam saw a winter wonderland, and curled up in the snow was a crocodile. Sam was self-aware enough to realize that in this kind of climate the crocodile would die. The crocodile wouldn't let anything get close to it. Sam had to walk in a large arc around the beast otherwise it would lunge and snap at him. To add onto the bizarreness of this phenomenon, the only living thing that could get close to the crocodile was a little black cat. The cat climbed over the reptile, which went unharmed when the feline's claws dug into its armory scales, and every time the crocodile felt threatened enough to lash out, so would the cat. In fact, the cat's fury outweighed that of the crocodile's. It would go to much greater lengths to ward off Sam, chasing him away with uncharacteristic shrieks and hissing, as if possessed by the Devil.

But then the snow was gone, and so were the cat and crocodile. Sam was walking along a river bed. He found ruins of an old temple. He climbed up an ancient, neglect set of steps and found a deep pool that joined with the river. The pool was so deep that he couldn't see the bottom of it. Sam knew that entering the pool meant sure death, though he didn't know how he came by this impression. He turned away from the pool, and found himself raising his arms, like Jesus on a crucifix. Despite knowing that the pool would kill him, he let himself go. He tipped back, like a falling tree, and let gravity pulling him down, crashing into the tranquility beneath. The water closed over his body and he could see a torrent of bubbles and chopped water trying to restore its peace. He saw the sky above and just looked at from below the surface. He began to sink, slowly, but life was slipping away from him by his own will. He became aware of a distinct sensation. Cold.

The water began to freeze around him. Sam's felt his fingers being cemented together by ice. He couldn't move them. He managed to flip himself over and look down, but the darkness just got that much closer. He could hear something, diluted by the water: it sounded like the tune to "Ring Around the Rosie".

Panic struck a glancing blow.

Sam kicked for the surface. It seemed to only get father and farther away, the walls of the pool rising with every powerful stroke he mustered. The medium he was suspended in suddenly vanished, and he was falling. He watched the water dropping with him freeze into crystalline daggers. Sam hit solid ground, only to have dozens upon dozens of ice spikes spear him.

Pin him to the ground like an insect pinned to cork board.

Sam was breathing haggardly, watching red blossoms bloom all over his body. Wherever he was, it was dark, so he didn't know how he could see. He could hear it better now, that nursery song.

Ring around the rosies,

Pockets full of posies,

Ashes,

Ashes,

We all fall—

"-down."

While Sam screamed in his dream, it didn't push past the barrier between slumber and consciousness. It was forced through filters which only registered it as a walloping heave of breath from a jolt of the body, followed by gasping and shivering. Dean's room was an ice box. Shaking, Sam jumped out of bed (only to receive a sure shock from a stone cold floor), and rubbed his arms frantically for friction. It took a little while, but the chill that Sam felt in his bones slowly began to thaw. It wasn't actually as cold in here as Sam thought.

How long had it been? Four, five years since the Apocalypse? It had been a few years since he last had a nightmare about Hell too. When Sam thought about it, it didn't make sense. Why was he remembering? _Again?_ Castiel had taken his memories of the Cage. Of what Lucifer and Michael did to him in there. The only thing he remembered about the Cage, up until now, was that it happened to him. He didn't remember anything else. Sam was suddenly aware of Castiel's absence. He considered leaving the room, looking for him, but he was magnetized. He turned to look at his dead brother.

Sam knew it would only be a matter of time before they'd have to put Dean on ice. The clock was ticking, and he and Castiel still hadn't come up with any agreeable solutions. He'd had Castiel talk him out of too man different approaches on the ride back to the bunker, and on more than one occasion, Sam's aggression broke the surface and he would have to pull the Impala over, get out, and walk it off. As he began to mull over these ideas again, Sam could feel himself walking toward the edge of a very high cliff. And he was ready to jump.

Sam left Dean's room, and headed for the storage room that contained the bunker's "dungeon". Once there, he gathered materials and pulled apart the shelf-doors. After stepping inside, the surviving Winchester knelt on the concrete floor, painted neatly with a large Devil's Trap, and began to orchestrate his setup. Once it was all ready, he plucked a match from the matchbook he found and struck it. Sam was literal inches from summoning Crowley, and striking up a deal.

"Sam, wait."

He turned around, to see Castiel. He wasn't standing alone.

"...Cas, what the hell-"

"Please," the angel insisted, extending a careful hand and a step forward to match, "hear me out."

"Cas-" Sam jumped suddenly, hissing as he dropped the match. He hopped up on his feet, cringing from his burned fingers. "Who the hell-"

"This is Ruth. She''s an angel."

Sam just looked at the woman beside Castiel. She was pretty tall. She actually looked the same height as him. She stood straight, but even so, Sam saw a hunch in her shoulders. Her hair was blond and coarse.

"Ruth-" he repeated, blinking, "As in "Ruth and Naomi"?"

"We're not related," the woman said with unblinking eyes, "...Not directly, anyway."

Sam offered Ruth a tight-lipped nod. His eyes slid aside to stare Castiel down.

Explanation.

Now.

The male angel stepped forward again.

"Ruth can help us get Dean back. She can get into Heaven, bypass Metatron's fire walls. She'll find Dean and bring him back."

Sam was looking at Castiel as if he had grown a third eye.

"_What?_"

"Sam, it's the only way-"

"Are you _out of your mind?_" Sam launched, "I—" he stopped, looking at Ruth. His glare shifted from her to him. Castiel stirred.

"-Ruth, could you stay here for a minute?"

Ruth only nodded. Sam and Castiel moved their debate to the library, but not before bolting the storage room shut behind them. Castiel didn't bother telling Sam that the bolt would no longer do any good; it'd be better for him to have some peace of mind while they talked.

"Have you _completely lost it?!_" Sam said, turning on the angel.

"Sam it's the _best option-_"

_"The last time someone in our circle put their trust in an angel—..._" Sam broke off. His eyes skittered as he recollected things that he didn't want to remember. Castiel watched him quietly. "..._We paid a price,_" he finished, "_that was–– WAY too costly._"

Ah yes. Kevin Tran. At the hands of Sam Winchester.

"Cas, how do you know that Ruth is telling the truth?" Sam pressed, "For all we know, she's a Metatron loyalist who just found the perfect opening to–– _cull the opposition_."

Castiel pulled an angel blade out of his sleeve. Sam was about to ask, but then he pulled out another one. He set them both down on the table.

"... She gave up her weapon," he told Sam. "I checked her over myself. She had no other weapons on her."

Sam was a little side-put hearing this. He pictured Castiel frisking his sister. It didn't sit well with him.

"What if you were followed-"

"Sam," Castiel stopped him, "...Believe me, I wouldn't have brought Ruth within eyeshot of the bunker if I knew we were being followed." The angel was slightly disappointedthat the hunter didn't think better of him. To solidify his statement, he opened up his palm to his friend. On his skin, written in Sharpie, was a short Enochian phrase. Sam couldn't tell, but it was the same Enochian symbolization that Castiel had gotten tattooed on himself before Gadreel erased it. "Ruth has one too. We were camoflaged." Sam chewed on this.

"...Okay, say you're right. How is this plan of your going to work? I mean, wouldn't this be like a––a suicide mission for Ruth? She'd be walking right into the Death Star. Why the hell would she want to risk her life to help us?"

It wasn't exactly hook, line, and sinker, but he''d take it. But as Castiel opened his mouth to respond, a voice from the other side of the bolted door interjected.

"I'm capable of _speaking for myself_."

* * *

**Note: If you want to put a face to Ruth for imagination's sake, Anna Gunn/Skyler White from _Breaking Bad_ was my intended "face claim" for her character.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	16. Sticky Situation

**TWs for this chapter:** **Gore.**

* * *

"I'm not– in league with Metatron."

There was an odd slur in Ruth's voice now, and Sam had no idea where it came from. He and Castiel were standing before Ruth in the storage room. As Ruth defended herself, Sam couldn't bump the thought that at any moment, she might attack them with some weapon that Castiel had missed. Perhaps she had drawn a sigil somewhere in the room while they were out. While it wouldn't affect Sam, Castiel was at risk of that possibility. Sam had tried telling Castiel to wait outside, but Castiel apparently didn't trust him enough to be in a room alone with Ruth.

One of Ruth's eyes was drooping a bit, and Sam had to bite back questions concerning her current state.

"I've been Castiel's supporter since th' beginning," said the blond angel, "Ever since th' campaign against Raphael." Sam remembered Raphael very well. He—or she—had been one of the snobbiest, most self-righteous dicks he, Dean, and Cas had ever faced. But Raphael was now officially the prom queen's runner-up to Metatron. "Even when Castiel slaughtered thousands of our kind, I believed— I believed that it was fer th' greater good, 'n that if it was God's will,... let it be done."

Castiel was not proud of what he had done, even now. He found himself averting his gaze when Ruth brought this up. Sam naturally spared a glance at Castiel. It seemed to him that Ruth didn't think very much for herself, that she was hardly an outstanding exception from her brothers and sisters who needed guidance. She had a tough exterior when Castiel had first introduced her, but... she appeared to be crumbling now. She didn't appear quite as strong as her previously stone-faced expression had led him to believe. But the fact that she had stepped forward and was willing to speak for herself—well, it showed some promise.

"I don't—I don't wanna follow Metatron," she continued, "I wanna follow Castiel."

Ruth looked like she was about to fall over.

"Hey, are you alright?" Sam asked, stepping forward, but Castiel hooked a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. Ruth blinked as she teetered slightly.

"... _Gotta vacate_," she said.

Her vessel burst, spraying the immediate surroundings in blood, sloshes of muscle, organ tissue, and shards of bone. Sam flinched, shielding his face. For a few moments after, Sam stood, sucking in air, blinking through the red fluids that moistened his face. Castiel had closed his eyes, and wiped off his own face with an already bloody sleeve before opening them.

"... I told her to find a new vessel before bringing her here," he said. Sam looked at Castiel.

"_What?_"

"Angels— you know they can only take certain people as vessels," he explained, "Certain bloodlines, like yours, allow angels to occupy humans without the vessel rupturing. Most people aren't strong enough to contain the power of an angel. With all of the angels fallen, it's become a free-for-all to find stable vessels." The remaining angel surveyed his own vessel. He was going to have to put his clothes through the wash. "—Ruth's fine," he said, looked right up at Sam. "She just has to find a new vessel."

"..._Great_," his voice cracked slightly. Castiel looked upon him apologetically.

"...I insisted that she find a new vessel," he repeated, "but she wouldn't hear it. She just said to bring her to you immediately, that there wasn't any time to waste." Sam could only wonder just how many people Ruth burned through. He pitied the souls that trusted their lives in the hands of angels like her.

"I'm gonna..._ go clean up_," said Sam, and he awkwardly shuffled out of the storage room, resisting the urge to even touch his sticky hair. Castiel watched him go, and then he remembered. He hustled out after Sam, and looked out to the door of the bunker on the far side of the corridor. He saw a powdery white smoke hovering around the exit, and he remembered that the bunker was warded. He hurried through the library, into the foyer, and ascended the stairs on quick feet. He unbolted the first of the two doors, and Ruth followed him, wafting into the walkway. Castiel unlocked the second door, and pushed it open. Ruth's essence flowed freely out into the open air. He watched as it vanished over the river across the gravel road, before locking the doors fast again. Once he had done that, he looked at his sanguine state. He needed a shower.


	17. War Talk

A reunion that had been joyful now became little awkward. Dean couldn't take his eyes off of his grandfather. He still had some qualms about how young Henry was. It was difficult to believe that a man his age was the father of his father. And he had been angry with Henry for abandoning John. But now that he had seen his grandfather die, _how _exactly he died and _why_—he couldn't exactly continue to hold that against him. Could he? Because it was technically his fault that Abaddon _Quantum-Leap_ed to 2013. But if Abaddon hadn't fast-forwarded through the Apocalypse—

Thinking about it created a lot of knots in Dean's mind. He racked his scalp. Better to just leave the past in the past.

"So, you took the _Stairway to Heaven_, huh?" The hunter forgot that Henry wouldn't understand that he was referencing Zeppelin. _Stairway To Heaven _was released in 1971. He missed the years of good music ramped up in its prime. But nevertheless, his grandfather did understand that it was an expression.

"Yes," the groomed man replied, "Heaven—isn't quite what I imagined it would be."

"What were you imagining?"

"What the Bible said. Pearly Gates. Streets made of pure gold. A River and Tree of Life— I wasn't expecting... war." Dean hopped his brows and cocked his head to one side.

"Yeah, well, there's trouble in paradise, Pops," he said, "and the cavalry's calling."

"It's always one battle after another," Henry shook his head with lips pressed thinly together.

"That's the life of a hunter."

"I'm not a hunter," Henry said, looking squarely at his grandson now, "I never was."

He was still pretty touchy about that, huh?

"...Right," Dean assented. Privately, he still considered Men of Letters hunters. Just... more educated, elite ones. Not to mention self-dignified.

Dean sat back in his roller chair. He, Henry and Bobby had retired from the stadium and were now sitting in what Dean guessed was a conference room of whatever complex they were in. It was a very nice, elegant setup. The large table they were sitting around was sheeted in glass. The walls were sided in wood paneling, trimmed with metal. He rubbed his forehead, pinching his fingers on the bridge of his nose.

"So what's the game plan?" he asked, looking now at both Henry and Bobby. "I mean, how_ exactly_ do you plan to take on legions of angels without weapons?"

"_First of all_," began Henry, with a firmness that Dean hadn't ever seen before, "we pick our battles. We don't run in with guns blazing. Second of all, _who says we don't have weapons?_"

Dean stared at Henry for a long moment. Henry's eyes were locked on him, and the expression he wore was one of uncharacteristic anger. He wondered what exactly Henry had seen up here that got his panties bunched. Or maybe he was angry about his grandsons getting him killed. About Dean refusing to let him return to his family, his boy. It was a rare occasion to see Dean Winchester speechless in the face of verbal opposition. Hell, even _Lucifer_ had never managed to stop him from running his mouth, not even when he was wearing Sam in that 2014 spin-off that Zachariah drafted up for him. Having nothing to say, the hunter closed his cavity. Bobby looked between his surrogate son and his grandfather. They watched as something leached away the man's aggression. He relaxed again, closing his eyes, and sighed quietly.

"...Soul power," he continued at last. Dean didn't have any trouble holding back a smart remark about how _groovy _that sounded. When Henry didn't receive a response, he leaned forward. "_You._ The weapon is _you_."

Dean blinked in disbelief.

"What? You mean the whole _"Michael Sword"_ deal?"

The look Henry wore now spelled that he had no idea what he was talking about. Dean clarified.

"I'm... Michael's vessel. The _archangel Michael_. Or _was_," the hunter gave an acknowledging nod to the fact that Michael was still cage-fighting Lucifer in Hell at this very moment. Wearing Adam-

Henry looked awestruck.

"That– That's _amazing_," he said, "That _is excellent-_"

"What? How-"

"This is very good news," his grandfather's gaze dropped to the tabletop. He seemed to be talking more to himself now that anyone else.

"How?" Dean asked. He noticed that Bobby was being unusually quiet through this whole exchange. It was beginning to look like Henry was the _real _head honcho commandeering the war effort.

"If _you're_ Michael's vessel– you have an _incredibly_ powerful soul. ...We could use it to turn the tide in this fight."

"Hold on, hold on-" Dean stopped him, "_Soul power_. You said you're using _soul power_ to fight. How?"

Henry spared a brief glance to Bobby. It almost seemed _permissive_ of him to speak. Dean didn't like it.

Bobby leaned forward in his chair.

"Your _grandfather _here let me in on a little secret of his."

Dean looked between the two older men as suspense clipped the atmosphere in the room. He gestured for Bobby to continue.

"—_And?_"

"The _secret_," Bobby emphasized, "is-"

"Remembering that all of this-" Henry interjected, standing up and motioning around the room. He gently cupped the air with his hand, twisting his wrist and curling his fingers into a loose fist. He watched his hand with an almost loving fascination. "-is an illusion."

For a moment, Dean watched Henry as he seemed to lose himself in thought, still looking at his hand, as if he was holding a priceless gem.

"...An _illusion_?" he said, daring to break the silence. Henry's focus was diverted.

"Yes," he answered, flexing his fingers as if letting go of the gem, "You are aware that you're _dead_ in Heaven, right Dean?"

"Yeah, well obviously-"

"So then what else does that make you?"

"I dunno, _Neo?_" Dean tossed out satirically. Henry looked like he was inches from done with his grandson's wit.

"A _soul_," he corrected, "You're a _soul_."

Well that much was obvious. Dean saw Bobby roll his eyes.

"You have _power_ in your hands, Dean, we all do. We _literally_ have _power in our hands_. It's just a matter of tapping into it."

The hunter recalled Henry mentioning tapping his soul for energy in passing, while they were still alive on Earth.

"Yeah? How's that going?" he asked.

"So far-"

"So far, it's been tougher than rawhide. We got bupkes," Bobby spoke up. Henry shot Bobby a look. "What?_ I_ can't even do it."

"It takes a lot of practice and skill-"

"And _time that we don't have_." Dean found it reassuring that Bobby was finally challenging Henry's authority. _This_ was the Bobby he knew. Better late than never-

"Robert, it's the only way-"

"We've been at this for _how long?_" Bobby pressed, "We ain't seein' any results. There's gotta be something else-"

"There isn't anything else!"

"How can you be so sure?!" Bobby leaped up from his chair.

"BECAUSE I AM!"

"Alright, fellas!" Dean hopped up from his chair. The two men stopped arguing and looked at him. "...Let's cool our jets a minute, huh? Step outside and breathe."

"...I'm fine," Henry muttered.

"_Ditto_," added Bobby resentfully. Dean gave him a long look.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked the aged hunter, before glancing at Henry, "_Alone?_"

Henry moved to speak, offended by these words, but he had to practice what he preached: Pick your battles. Instead, he closed his mouth, took a breath and nodded. He strode around the table, hefted open the wood door and exited. The door slammed shut behind him. Dean watched him leave, and kept his eyes on the door even after he was gone. Then he turned his attention to Bobby.

"...You alright?"

"_Peachy_."

Good ol' Bobby.

A moment later, the surrogate father continued with a scoff and a shake of the his head.

"Your _grandfather _can be a hardass, you know that?"

Dean didn't know that. Going by first impressions, he hadn't pegged Henry as a man with an iron fist for the Iron Throne.

"...Guess it runs in the family on_ both sides_," said Dean, remembering Samuel, but even then he wasn't so sure.

"Yeah, well he's certainly got a _real_ love for hunters on the straight and narrow," said Bobby. Dean stared at him, then looked back at the door. He inhaled, then let the air out through his nose. But in spite of Bobby's words, he felt something here. Something felt nearly... akin to him. He looked around. It was in the air. He couldn't see it but it was there. Dean returned to Bobby.

"Hey, you feel that?" he asked, to which he received a surprising look of indignance.

"Yeah. Your grandad's listening in."


End file.
